Sick Lullabies
by Hatter of Madness
Summary: Everyone knows that Haymitch is a bitter, angry drunk and that he favors Peeta over Katniss. But why? Rated T for language. Comfort because Haymitch only seems comforted by alcohol, which is mentioned a lot in this. First Hunger Games fic. Does not conform with Mockingjay canon.


**~*~Sick Lullabies~*~  
by Hatter of Madness**

* * *

Haymitch Abernathy needed something to stop the pain, anything.

It wasn't the pain, he tried to tell himself. It was the _thinking_. Thinking of everything made it so hard to get on with his life, because the thinking continued on and on and on, well into the night. And if it wasn't thinking, it was dreaming, if they could be called that. He thought and dreamt of _everything._ The arena, the reaping, the Quell...

The girl...

He tried to shake her from his mind. As far as he was concerned, there was no girl, no girl other than his mother, who had become beside herself with joy when Haymitch won the Games. When they moved into their new house in the Victor's Village, there was only one other occupant there, a winner from a long past Hunger Games, who was old and senile and always rambling on about the "rats with wings". Haymitch wasn't sure whether that was something he had seen in the Games, or if he was so manic that he was convinced rats with wings really existed.

Other than Leonis Baxwoll, his mother could drone on forever about the 'perfect' home and the 'perfect' village and the 'perfect' life that has been provided for them. It seemed like she wanted to add what a 'perfect' scenario had placed them there: Haymitch's near death in the arena.

"Yeah, it's so perfect that I only had to watch forty-seven other kids _die _so you can have it, Mom." It takes most of his will to keep from saying those words to her.

His father was a big drinker, which was really no secret to the people in District Twelve, where everyone was so close to one another (literally, if not figuratively) that there wasn't really a secret to be kept. In fact, he had cabinet upon cabinet full of the _stuff_. When Haymitch got relentless after the Games after four nights without sleep (he thought he'd die of exhaustion), his mother broke into one of the cabinets and gave him a thimbleful of wine.

It was disgusting, he later reflected. Even though it didn't have the overall potency that the other stuff had, it burned his throat on the way down. He was able to sleep for only an hour before it came back up, and he hadn't even had a lot. A thimbleful wasn't enough to get someone drunk, and it certainly wasn't enough to get someone to lose all contents of their stomach.

And maybe it was rude, but by the time Haymitch was in his twenties, he'd had enough. One day he abruptly made his now-widowed mother leave the house. She promptly disowned him. At the age of twenty-two, though, what did it matter? He'd never have to work a day in his life, unless you counted teaching the new recruits a thing or two about staying alive in the arena, which he didn't, because all twelve of them since he'd been chosen hadn't. But then, his advice wasn't exactly the best.

"Here's some advice," he told the tributes from two years prior, "stay alive."

Neither of them lasted the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. So much for staying _alive_.

* * *

Fighting the bitter cold of a District Twelve winter was easier said than done, even with the luxuries that the Capitol provided Haymitch after his win in the Games. The things they had given him, he had never truly known before. After all, wasn't it said that in Twelve you could starve in safety?

And the Abernathys didn't just starve. They froze, and got dehydrated, and always looked like they had just rolled around in mud, from the dirt that was always around them. Tule Abernathy, his father, always went out and wasted whatever little money they had on alcohol. That is, they starved and froze and his father wasted money until there was so much money coming in, anything they spent it on seemed like a waste. So of course, his father continued to purge on booze. Though Haymitch wasn't exactly a picture of perfect behavior, he was repulsed by the way his father acted when intoxicated, so he vowed to never touch the stuff.

But in the arena, he learned quickly that the Capitol had ways of manipulating people, forcing them to become different people. Haymitch had barely escaped, and when he had, he no longer felt like Haymitch. He was a piece in their Games.

The winters in Twelve were certainly brutal, in any case, so Haymitch found it in his best interest as he walked home from the Hob, laden with food (he really only liked to shop when he was at the point where he could hardly sustain himself any longer), and knew that it'd be a little while before he reached the Victor's Village, to stop somewhere to warm up a bit. He didn't see the point, since he'd have to go back out in the cold again, anyway.

"Haymitch Abernathy?" a thin man with beetle black eyes said as the door to the small place swung open, letting in Haymitch and plenty of snow. "What are you doing here?" It wasn't meant to be rude; rather, it was confusion.

Haymitch sat at the bar counter, looking at him for a long and quiet moment, then said, "I want a drink."

This was a place his father frequented once the money started pouring in. He had gone to it probably a handful of times, at the most, _before_ there was money to be spent.

The barman raised a tentative brow. "Really?"

"Yes, _really_," Haymitch snapped. Was he an idiot?

"You. Want a drink?" he asked, trying to confirm it.

"Did I stutter?" Haymitch asked dangerously.

Without any other confirmation on the part of the bartender, he asked, "Well, anything special? We have..."

"Whatever," Haymitch mumbled, not in the mood to hear about the various drinks that the man had to offer.

Instead, the man turned and rifled through the supplies, adding this and that to something he was whipping up in a tall tumbler. Haymitch drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter, thinking to himself all the while, _This is so stupid._

Finally, the man slid the tumbler towards Haymitch and said, "There you go."

Haymitch took a drink and had to force himself not to wretch. It was disgusting. "What the hell do you call this?" he asked.

"A Donner." The man's voice suddenly sounded sad.

"And _why _do you call it that?"

"It's for that merchant girl that died in the arena with you. What was her name—Maysilee?"

He nearly sputtered, but caught himself, then mumbled something that sounded like, "Thanks." He wasn't thankful. That girl—Maysilee Donner—one of the girls from Twelve that went in with him. She was, well...how did he _begin _to describe her? He didn't even know her before they went in together. But when he knew that she was on death row...

He couldn't think about it. He _refused _to think about it. She was the source of some of his nightmares.

Not even two months later, the bar was destroyed.

* * *

Haymitch wasn't sorry when Ashby Roxen, the escort for District Twelve, was replaced with Effie Trinket, a girl with teal hair. At least, he _wasn't _sorry, until Effie turned out to be a bigger prick than Ashby was. He didn't even know it was possible, but when Iberis Ogilby and Thorburn Duncain were selected as tributes, with Effie as escort for the first time, he was ready to rip the woman's face off.

At twenty-nine years old, Haymitch was sick of telling these kids how to survive when they wouldn't take the damn advice and _survive._ "We have a busy, busy day!" Effie trilled the day after the reaping.

"Doing _what?_" Haymitch grumbled. Effie gave a high pitched laugh. He didn't dare tell her that he was being serious.

After Thorburn killed Iberis immediately during the bloodbath, Haymitch thought he could like the guy, if he lived. That was, until he was killed by the twelve-year-old from District Eleven, who was the wimpiest thing that Haymitch had ever seen.

That was within the first two days of the Games, so Haymitch immediately turned back to his bottle. He hadn't had a Donner since he had visited the bar, frankly because he didn't know the ingredients and he couldn't be bothered.

Ever since he turned to drinking, the nightmares stopped. Most of the thinking (rational thinking, in any case) did, too. Except for one night, when he woke up no less than seven times, and each time he fell back asleep, he thought of her death. How cold her hand had felt, even though she was still alive. In retrospect, he thought it was her fault for being so stupid for crossing those demonic birds in the first place. But even though it was so damn easy, he couldn't stay mad at the late Maysilee Donner for long.

In fact, he liked to pretend that she didn't exist. The only girl that existed anymore was Stella Artois, and she was hard to come by anymore. In fact, if he could, he'd do away with the Trinket girl. She was a Capitol girl, and a stupid one at that. What he wouldn't give to have _her_ in the arena instead of the idiots he was given every year..._  
_

She was the reason he started to sleep with a knife. If he could slit her throat and make it look like a bloody accident...

* * *

When Katniss and Peeta became his neighbors (God, what a word), alcohol was in short demand. Again.

Then again, even as a victor he was starting to lose the few luxuries that he actually enjoyed. Like sleep.

"Get up!" Katniss ordered. Haymitch was still asleep, but the little brat showed up in his dreams. "Get up, Haymitch. It's tour day!"

As if he didn't already know.

Ignoring her and slumbering on, having a wonderful dream about a wine tasting, he was suddenly forced out of his sleep with a bucket of cold water. A most inhuman noise escaped him as he kicked his chair clear across the room and sat up, holding his knife. Profanities flew out of his mouth left and right as he looked around for his attacker. Surprise crossed him when he saw Katniss, but didn't let it show. "What are you doing?" he asked, seeing her.

"You told me to wake you an hour before the cameras come," she said. As if he didn't know. _She _was talking to _him_ like _he _was a child? If either of them were a child, it would be her.

"What?" he said.

"Your idea," Katniss fired off. He wasn't actually asking about that. He had questioned about her tone of voice, but said nothing.

"Why am I all wet?" And again, she gave a smart ass reply when really, he was ready to transfer his anger from Effie to her.

"I couldn't shake you awake. Look, if you wanted to be babied, you should have asked Peeta."

When Peeta appeared, Haymitch was subdued. He actually liked the baker's son, but Katniss... Oh, good Lord, Katniss... "Asked me what?"

"Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia." His words, he hoped, cut through Katniss like a razor, but she barely responded. Little _brat. _Peeta cut him some bread, then offered Katniss some, but the brat refused. "You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime," Haymitch said, his bread already gone.

"Take a bath, Haymitch," Katniss said, ducking out the window. Little. _Brat._

As Peeta puttered around the house, Haymitch excused himself, not in so many words, to the bathroom to 'freshen up'. Peeta didn't ask, one thing that the boy is good for that _Katniss _isn't. Locking the door behind him (as _if_ Peeta was going to spy on him), he leaned against the sink, feeling a twisting, burning sensation in his gut. The fact of the matter was, Katniss reminded him of someone that was too, too familiar.

He turned on the cold water and it immediately began spewing out. He doused his face, looking up into the mirror, and seeing...a monster. Haymitch wasn't proud of what he had become. But only a part of it was his doing. The arena certainly helped. If he hadn't been selected at the reaping, he might have had a normal life. Maybe settled down, had some kids...

Yeah, right.

Peeta knocked at the door. Haymitch ignored it.

The knocking continued.

"Haymitch, as much as you _don't_ want to admit it, Katniss is right—take a bath."

Finding a knife in the cupboard under the sink—it was for _emergencies_, he tried but failed to tell Effie—he threw it at the door, where it got lodged into the wood. He could practically hear her voice ringing in his head: "_That is mahogany!_"

* * *

"Haymitch found a way to turn it into a weapon," Peeta said. God, what an _idiot._

"Not just against the other tributes, but the Capitol, too." Katniss. Annoying, bratlike Katniss. "You know they didn't expect that to happen. It wasn't meant to happen. It wasn't meant to be part of the arena. They never planned on anyone using it as a weapon. It made them look stupid that he figured it out." _Was that meant to be a rip on Haymitch?_ "I bet they had a good time trying to spin that one. Bet that's why I don't remember seeing it on television. It's almost as bad as us and the berries!"

The little brat laughed, as though the entire thing was a big game. Haymitch thought for a second—well, it _was _the Hunger Games, after all, if they were even joyous enough to be really considered a game. His hatred for Katniss, almost overpowering the way he felt for Effie, started to overpower him.

"Almost, but not quite," he said, forcing a smirk on his face and taking a long drink from his wine bottle. _Screw _sobriety. He then turned to leave the room before his bitterness could catch up with him.

He hated Katniss, not for being Katniss but for being so damn like Maysilee. And that stupid little mockingjay pin—what the hell was that, anyway? Madge had no right to give it to her. God, Madge. He had only ever seen the girl a few times, each time more painful than the last.

Haymitch had begged Maysilee's sister for that pin so many times that he had lost count. If anyone should have had it, it would be him, or maybe her. Madge had no right to it, and even less right to give it away like...like...

He couldn't even come up with a good analogy, he was so bitter.

He wanted to hit something. The anger was flooding up inside him so quickly and powerfully that he was willing to finish off Effie then and there, if he could find her. Thank God he didn't, though; he had no way of explaining why she had dropped dead so suddenly if he had. The thing that made Haymitch the most bitter was how much Katniss was like Maysilee and himself... It was as though she could be their _child_. The mere thought disgusted him. She could almost pass as theirs, anyway, maybe if she had had too much sun to be theirs and the eyes were just a smidge too..._colorless._

He had no one anymore, not even Stella Artois. He honestly had no idea what had become of his mother. She had come by almost twice a week to "see how Haymitch was doing" despite the whole disowning thing, then ended staying well past her welcome. Finally, after she realized how cold and distant her son had become, she stopped going. That was about the same time that he had to mentor the newest brats for the Games, anyway, so she could not have picked a better time. Halfheartedly, he hoped that she was still alive, because he wanted to show her that _finally,_ thanks to him, District Twelve had not one, but _two _winnersof the Games, even if one of them was an annoying prat and the other one spent his time frosting cookies.

More than anything, he had wished it had been him in the arena, and not _her. _If they could have gotten around the 'one victor only' rule the same way that Katniss and Peeta did, his life wouldn't be bad. He would have probably settled down with her, but would not have started a family. It was the same reason Katniss didn't want to marry: There was no guarantee, even as victors, that their children would ever be safe on reaping day. In fact, if it was a situation like Peeta and Katniss, their names would probably be drawn from their very first reaping.

The idea of fleeing District Twelve never seemed so inviting.

Finishing the last of the wine bottle, Haymitch felt a sort of emptiness that he had felt every night since the end of the Games. His mother had suggested time and again that he should have gotten married, since he was supposedly some "enviable man in District Twelve" and blah, blah, blah. He stopped listening after the twentieth time she said it, and she continued to say it another fifty times or so. If she had her way, she probably would have arranged a wedding with Effie Trinket.

She was the last woman that Haymitch would ever consider getting hitched to. He would first marry Peeta than have to exchange vows with Effie.

_Effie Abernathy._ God, what a joke.

He climbed into bed that night. He wished, for once in his life, that tears would come, but it seemed that once again his tear ducts failed him. He wanted to open up to someone, to tell them about this pain, a feeling he wasn't unfamiliar with and certainly didn't like. He had felt this pain every time he thought about his Games. And when Peeta and Katniss watched them, it was brought back to the surface, cutting through him like a knife. Even though it was the worst thing in the world, he couldn't bear to look away, because once again, Maysilee Donner was alive. She had been fifteen when her name was pulled from the reaping bowl. She still had at least another sixty-five good years of life in her.

As far as Haymitch was concerned, it was his fault. He had felt that especially, even though he was only barely conscious, when Katniss volunteered for her sister...what was her name? Prim? The only names he even cared about were Peeta and Katniss, since they were the only two he was expected to know.

Katniss was willing to volunteer for her sister, willing to take her death instead of letting the final blow fall on the little blonde haired girl from the Seam. That was another thing that brought the stabbing sensation back: Prim, _if_ that was her name, had the same blonde hair that haunted him. She had that merchant look that wasn't common in the Seam, and Katniss's mother had it, too.

He wasn't drunk, but he might as well have been. He wished he _was_ drunk. That would be better than _this._

The thing that killed him the most was that Katniss was willing to take Prim's spot in death, and he should have taken Maysilee's place when it was her turn.

Wasn't that what love was about?

* * *

**First Hunger Games fic HOLLA. Okay who needs a tissue? TOO BAD BECAUSE PRESIDENT SNOW HAS THEM HA HA HA. Oh I'm evil. I feel like I'm drunk (Hatter Abernathy?). But I've never had alcohol a day in my life. Um. Haymitch has always been my favourite HG character, don't ask why, and I just finished Catching Fire (so no spoilers plz). So after the story with Maysilee Donner, I was desperate to know more about him. This had started as a story to explain why he was a drunk, but then it ended up being why he was so crabby all the time. I also didn't mean for it to become this long? The title comes from the song Mr. Brightside by the Killers, because it seems like it could be about Haymitch. Maysilee and Haymitch are like my OTP for the Hunger Games now, I swear to God. Reviews are nice and appreciated. Thanks. :D**

**- Hatter of Madness**


End file.
